Snowed in at Midnight
by cacaepica
Summary: A snowstorm leads to an interesting occurrence at 221B Baker Street. Johnlock ship pairing: contains mentions of masturbation and sexual activity AKA what y'all Tumblr users love ;)


London was a usually a good-natured place in the heart of winter, with its scarlet red ornaments and cider scented air. It was a place full of charm, snow, and lightness- if one could ignore pesky pickpockets and the occasional, massive snowstorm. However, the current night was having one of the latter occurrences, which resulted in an incident at a certain address of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes angrily slammed the door of his flat, ripping another long tear in the fragile, plastered wall. His shifting eyes glowed with irritation as he mussed his snow-covered dark curls. No one needed the man's nearly-impeccable deduction skills to know that he was tired, angry, and utterly _bored_.

"Nothing to do!" he shouted at the blank walls, kicking it strongly to add a point. "I don't have a cigarette," he added in frustration, "or even just a nicotine patch!"

More silence rang deafeningly throughout the flat, broken only by Sherlock's soft yet deep sigh. The tired man was in no mood for clever tricks at the moment, shown by the cracked floor tiles he'd broken out of spite. After a few more seconds of complete silence, he simply marched up the stairs, found the doorknob, and pushed his way in.

"John?" Sherlock called out, scanning the room with intelligent (but slightly bleary), steel-blue eyes. His gaze caught the steam leaking out of the half-open shower door and the man who poked his head out of it.

"Oh, hey Sherlock," the brunet replied, his eyes wandering. Sherlock narrowed his eyes with brief observations, and before John could step back into the shower, his water-slick arm was clasped by his friend's tight grasp.

"So, my friend," Sherlock began lightly, almost playfully, "you've been in the shower…" He took a deep sniff. "... yet you don't smell like soap."

John's soft eyes filled with confusion as he shook his head. "Sherlock, what are you getting at? I've only been in there for-"

"Now judging by the accumulation of steam on the glass, you've been in the shower for approximately 20 minutes." Sherlock's mouth was moving rapidly, speaking words that steadily crumbled his flatmate's defenses. "That may be due to a random spell of reverie or daydreams, but one can easily spot the dilation of your pupils and the flush of your cheeks.

"Yet there is one more thing that is quite telling…

Sherlock cracked a mischievous half-smile as he took another sniff, eyes flashing like dancing opals.

"Instead of the scent of soap, there is another white substance's odor on your lower abdomen, _John_ _Hamish Watson_."

Of course, there was another observation that alerted Sherlock to his friend's acts. He decided to keep it to himself, knowing that it would prove the brunet guilty.

So delightfully guilty.

John's face immediately trembled and flushed a soft red, a color Sherlock found to be striking against his fair complexion and crystalline eyes. The brunet opened his mouth to mount another defense, but Sherlock knew that he'd never be able to say anything that disproved that brutal verdict.

"Sherlock, I…" His voice trailed off into uncertainty, and the taller man cocked his head to the side. "What, John?" he asked, giving his voice the faintest touch of huskiness.

 _The game is on…_

John's eyes were swirling. "Sherlock…

Then they hardened.

Sherlock expected this.

"Get your hand off of me! People might talk if they hear that you 'touched' me 'in the shower-'"

"Why does it matter if people talk?" the detective earnestly inquired, effectively cutting off any interruption from his flustered flatmate. "Masturbation is a perfectly healthy way of relieving stress, and it's not to be condemned-"

Sherlock's feather-light eyes cleared in sudden understanding. "Oh," he muttered, finally releasing the clench on his friend's arm, and the latter quickly swept back into the shower and hurriedly closed the door.

Precisely six minutes and fifty-six seconds later, thirteen minutes to midnight, Sherlock heard his flatmate- who definitively smelled of fresh soap this time- coming out of the shower room, light brown hair wet with both perspiration and running water. John's pale eyes were clearer now as he flopped down into his sofa, too exhausted to make the journey to his bed.

The dark-haired man now saw an opportunity to make with his friend, bringing a faint smirk to his slender lips.

"John?"

The brunet looked up, and, without opening his eyes, made a slight, tired nod. "What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock clapped his hands together suddenly, startling John into a more awake state. "You know that today was quite an uneventful day for the both of us, especially since the snow is not presenting any cases to us?" he asked, promptly slapping four nicotine patches onto his arm and eliciting a sigh from his flatmate. The former carried on, feeling the rush of drug stream through his body, invigorating him. "I'd like to make some more deductions with you, yet again."

"Concerning what subject?"

"Us."

John's steely eyes melted into a gaze of mercurial blue. "That's quite an interesting subject you've proposed," he replied with remarkable steadiness- though Sherlock could discern those slight, excited tremors through that facade. "How would we discuss this topic?"

Sherlock drew in a deliberately slow and deep breath, savoring the childlike expression on his flatmate's weathered visage.

Of course, he wasn't going to say anything now. The game was afoot, and he was not one to end it so wastefully.

His next words came out with decisive care, accentuated by the deep, thoughtful tenor of his voice.

"How would you, _John Hamish Watson_?"

Sherlock's careful, ice-blue eyes studied another shiver and another blush from the man across from him. When no answer came from his stunned friend, he elegantly strode over to the former's chair, his fingers brushing the worn fabric of said chair. "Twice I've addressed your middle name, and twice you've paid no heed," the dark-haired man observed. "Might that show something about your attitude to me?"

John's face became the epitome of dumbfoundedness, something Sherlock found highly amusing. "H-hey, I let you off the hook 'cause you're my best friend, mate, whatever-"

"Yet you quite complained at your wedding-"

"Our relationship developed!" John's voice rose several intervals in indignation as he stood up from his chair. Sherlock's mouth rose into a smile only his best friend could recognize, a playful, happy smile that shone with a sort of naivety or innocence. John tried to reach his flatmate's height to show his mock frustration, but his tiptoes only elevated him by 2 centimeters, up to Sherlock's nose.

"John, instead of trying to match my height-"

"And ego?"

Sherlock chuckled with a genuine sound that reverberated with mysterious elegance. "Instead of trying to match those, try to match my deductive skills," he whispered, suggestively leaning closer to his trembling friend, "my Watson."

John was clearly excited from these husky, dark words as he took one hand back to slowly ruffle his hair. "So I'd say you're drunk," he began hesitantly (Sherlock couldn't resist a smile coming to his lips again), "because your pupils are heavily dilated and you look like you're going to fall…"

The dark-haired man cleared his throat, a gentle flush tinting his pale cheeks. "Yes, John, like what happened with Moriarty, is it?" he teased, brushing his fingertips ever so slightly over John's fluttering eyelashes.

The brunet's breathing began to become harsher, more labored, as he choked out the remaining words. "... But I don't smell any alcohol… uh…

"Drugs? Maybe the nicotine?"

Sherlock sighed in intense exasperation. "Yes, brilliant," he scolded, "except you missed everything else of importance, you idiot."

John opened his mouth to protest but was silenced by his flatmate pressing his slender lips to his own. He stiffened, then slowly, steadily began to return the kiss, pushing harder and melting his lips into his best friend, just like the snowflakes melting into the air outside.

The detective gently pulled back, eyes glinting with soft humor as he took in the sight of a completely bewildered John. He teasingly leaned in, only to softly pull back as John tried to touch his mouth again. "You see," he sighed, placing his precise fingers onto his partner's curved neck, "you missed the fact that I befriended you on our first case, and all the cases after that. If you were just a friend like Molly, I'd treat you with little thanks… "

His careful hands slid up and wandered lightly, eliciting a sharp breath of ecstasy from the brunet's shaking body. The pair's lips slowly moved together again, melting into each other's bodies, fitting together in a way they had always wanted.

"... but _John Hamish Watson_ …"

Lost for words, he pulled back again and studied his friend's gentle, soft eyes. Two gazes met each other from mere centimeters away; two gazes of pale green, gentle silver, and icy blue that swirled, collided, danced in perfect harmony, as if they had come from the same waters.

Fitting, considering what they were doing. They were hungering for each other, mouths crashing together like waves lapping against sand, pounding each other relentlessly into submission. Both were starved of air, yet they kept their bodies close, fluidly moving as one mass entity, as one loving soul. Sherlock let out a rare gasp of excitement as John moved harder, faster, stronger, yearning to express the words, the desires that burned through themselves, the things that turned the pair into completely different beings.

Their pale skin beaded with sweat; their kisses ached with long repressed emotions; their bodies ran on blood, arousal, and ecstasy. The taller man felt his deductions beginning to flicker and shut down as his hands danced up his friend's weakened defenses and eliciting a blissful sigh from the latter.

It seemed as if time had stopped for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as they ached with impulses that drew more arousal into the air, more carnality-

The sound of the clock ringing at midnight drew the pair apart, gasping for breath. Their eyes had become polished aquamarine, glazed by the intensity of the acts they had just committed.

Silence ensued as the snow outside the windows gently fell.

"I didn't know… you had that sort of side, Sherlock," John stammered, finally breaking the quiet between the two. "Didn't everyone say you were, uh, asexual?"

Sherlock tilted his head in curiosity. "Where did everyone get that from?" he questioned.

"Gee, I dunno," John fired back playfully, "maybe it's the charming personality, amazing bluntness, general lack of interest in sex and romance-"

"But I had to get Janine to my side somehow," his friend replied mildly.

The brunet laughed, still trying to catch his breath. "So we're forty years old, I have a kid, and we just made out? Have I got that right?"

Sherlock's gaze flickered over to the clock again. Three minutes past midnight. His soft, slender mouth quirked up into another mischievous, sly grin. "Yes, John, and I've just noticed that you're getting aroused again? Judging by the state of your groin?"

John reddened. "I am not-"

Sherlock's precise words interrupted his complaints. "It's obvious, moron. I caught you in the shower… and whose name did I find, left carelessly behind after orgasm?"

He held out his mobile- hard, incriminating evidence on the screen.

Fogged on the shower glass were the initials 'S.H.'

The brunet smiled- a rare, dark, wicked expression that took Sherlock aback. Finally. "And it's clear you've reciprocated, haven't you, my Sherlock? Are you still bored?"

Snow continued to fall outside, gently and silently, waiting for answers.

"Have I? Am I?" _Is the game is still on?_

Eyes shone with rapturous energy.

John simply replied by clasping his flushed partner's arm and throwing him onto the bed that was hidden away in the darkness.

 _So the game is on, my dearest Watson_.


End file.
